


existence is

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:24:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the times he takes off his mask are the most realistic moments of your existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	existence is

There exist no plants.

No fields of green and yellow, no dandelions, no honeysuckle, no clover, no poppies, no pine trees, no wildfire, no dead leaves. Seasons are static. At night the sky is cold, and the stars blink. The eyelashes of stars are long, frail, and metallic, and the eyes blink all at the same time so there is a moment of complete darkness every other minute. The air in every zone smells of burning or of decay. There is sugar, plastic, meat, smoke, metal - the only things existence has known. Nothing is soft but raw flesh.

"If there were flowers," he mumbles into your ear, half-awake and naked against your back, "I'd bring you some, Batter."

"There aren't any flowers." He mumbles something less romantic and rolls over to go back to sleep.

When you pull at his hair, it is grassy, dry black waves of hair, but you don't know how this comparison gets in your head. You have never touched grass once before. You touch his hair curiously. He laughs a very irritating, very satisfying laugh every time and moves closer to your touch; you pull away.

His hands are bigger than yours, and hairier. The bone of his knuckles is not fleshy but strong. His fingers are as long as the Judge's words. You don't trust him around bats. His fists seem like they could wrap around them and break them. Every one in existence has small, hairless, empty hands. He has black, freckled hands with bruises and pink scratches on the palms. His thumb hooks on your lip and you feel he could snap off your jaw.

Zacharie does not do this. He does not break. He handles his supplies with care when he hands them to you. He handles you with care. When he wakes up during the blinking night, he tells you such soft things you sit up for twenty minutes and stare at your hands. Your spine sticks out through your back. Your feet seem so monstrous. Your nails are chipped and yellow. He is not just flesh and meat; he is bone, hair, muscle, grass, color. His eyelashes are something poetic, something wing-like. His eyes are not like your eyes at all. Neither is his body. Neither is his face.

The times he takes off his mask are the most realistic moments of your existence.

There shouldn't exist evenings, dawns, twilight, mornings, nights. He stays with you when the air is cold, bitter smoke and wakes up with orange eyes. His mouth is all over your fleshy, bony body and you can't even begin to kiss every inch of his legs no matter how much you want to spent an entire day doing so. 

You ask, "Are you real?"

"I'd ask the same of you," he replies.


End file.
